


That's the Story You Tell Yourself, Anyway

by stridertrash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8563966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stridertrash/pseuds/stridertrash
Summary: Tumblr prompt: "hmmm how about brodave post-strife make outs?", but everything I touch turns to angst.





	

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fic over at my strider blog (Stridertrash), and a cautionary tale about prompting me anything simple and straightforward.

“Son of a bitch. Swear one of these days you’re going to going to do something and I’m gonna have to call CPS on your ass. Motherfuck.”  
  
He’s bluffing, and you both know it, so you don’t bother giving him the dignity of a response, as though that will be enough to shut him up. Kid’s sitting with hands clutching tight to the cheap porcelain toilet, and your knees are knocking on the cheap porcelain tile. The shithole you call a bathroom really isn’t big enough for two people, but that’s never stopped you before, seeing as you’d rather not risk getting blood on anything you’re planning to sell.  
(That’s the story you tell yourself, anyway.)  
  
You caught him good across the leg and he had pussed out, afraid you were going to have to stitch him up again. Normally you would have told him to get up and walk it off, because, you know, you’re you, but, whatever, you may as well have come back inside and nuked up something to eat.  
(That’s the story you tell yourself, anyway.)  
  
Where it leaves you is with you applying butterfly bandages to something that probably should get stitched up, but that would involve either doing it or taking him to a doctor. Neither sounds appealing, so, you make do. It’ll scar, but he’ll be fine.  
(That’s the story you tell yourself, anyway.)  
  
“Carving me up like a goddamn Christmas ham,” he says as you apply the last of the bandages you deem necessary, which is not at all dictated by how many you have left and trying to stretch out how long until you have to buy more. You’re going to need more. “Fucking sword bullshit  
  
“Stop whining,” is all the help you give.  
  
“Kiss it better,” he says right back, and you peer up at him through your shades and you know that he can’t read your face.  
  
You do, though. You rise up off your knees and grab him by the face and kiss him and your face is so stubbly that if his mouth wasn’t occupied he’d bitch about that, too, some kind of crack about trying to tear up his face too. He loops arms up around your shoulders and kisses back, you grab him by the jaw and pull him close and he winces because he has to move the leg that’s being held together by cheap polymer and adhesive, but he makes the nicest noise.  
  
That’s how you know he’s bluffing about calling CPS.  
  
That’s the story you tell yourself, anyway.


End file.
